Eliminating Angels and Demons; Thursday on A&E
I can't sleep these days. Gotta stay up late and drink until I can't keep my eyes open anymore. I'm so sad, all the time. Got guilt in a little nugget in my diaphragm, making sure I never get any rest. My dreams are all lucid, full of tasks I have to complete. A whole list of means. Point A to B. I wrote a song yesterday but it was nonsense. First one I've written in 5 months. Last one I wrote before was about how much I hated myself. And liked to be hated. Still do.
I am trying to go on lots of adventures. By myself. Into neighborhoods full of people that make me feel small. I can do anything. I don't need to encourage myself, I just can. Because nobody will notice. Anonymity breeds possibility. Now, what to do with all these people. Some project to make me affect every one in a way that I can hold privately against my chest. I want to cut the tips of their hair into a bucket. It's perverse, I'm aware. Then I'll set it ablaze on an open pier in the nighttime. It'll all smell the same. Like stinky sulphur. Then I'll take the ashes and smear them on my face and feel the consideration of hundreds of people I will never see again. Feel their definition clogging my pores. Preventing my face skin from taking a breath. Because it took my breath away in the first place. When I didn't want to give it. It's all about control. This way, it's mine. This time, it's mine. And when I wash away the smudges, I can purge myself of this loathing. Perhaps. Just like the nugget of guilt that I intend to send away on a postcard to a platform of readers who will sympathize because they have no responsibility. Their sympathy will not cure me of this unsuccessful catharsis. I hope. Because, then I will be real; authentic in my submission to my beliefs. I will not fight myself anymore. And I will have catholic guilt. And it will be who I am. Because I will be a good person. Just like I knew that I was, all along.
I am trying to go on lots of adventures. By myself. Into neighborhoods full of people that make me feel small. I can do anything. I don't need to encourage myself, I just can. Because nobody will notice. Anonymity breeds possibility. Now, what to do with all these people. Some project to make me affect every one in a way that I can hold privately against my chest. I want to cut the tips of their hair into a bucket. It's perverse, I'm aware. Then I'll set it ablaze on an open pier in the nighttime. It'll all smell the same. Like stinky sulphur. Then I'll take the ashes and smear them on my face and feel the consideration of hundreds of people I will never see again. Feel their definition clogging my pores. Preventing my face skin from taking a breath. Because it took my breath away in the first place. When I didn't want to give it. It's all about control. This way, it's mine. This time, it's mine. And when I wash away the smudges, I can purge myself of this loathing. Perhaps. Just like the nugget of guilt that I intend to send away on a postcard to a platform of readers who will sympathize because they have no responsibility. Their sympathy will not cure me of this unsuccessful catharsis. I hope. Because, then I will be real; authentic in my submission to my beliefs. I will not fight myself anymore. And I will have catholic guilt. And it will be who I am. Because I will be a good person. Just like I knew that I was, all along.